The End Of All Your Lines
by tigersbride
Summary: The gap between Northwest Passage and Over There. Implied P/O.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own them. _

* * *

"I told you to be patient  
I told you to be fine  
I told you to be balanced  
I told you to be kind  
Now all your love is wasted?  
Then who the hell was I?"

The emptiness was bleak and unexpected, no signature smile in a mirror, no telling musky smell. The woman tried the door, fear erupting within the depths of her as it gave away with only a turn of the handle. The motel room had been left empty, glimmers of light, but from a desk lamp. The only difference was a CD player, whirring as it played a recently burnt disk (entitled 'Peter from Boston'). Faintly, sounds of alternative music were just filling the air; the only telling sign that the room had been abandoned. The wardrobe, had it been examined, would have revealed a black holdall, home to some cash, a few limp items of clothing, and a crumpled photograph showing two female federal agents, a scientist, and a smiling man with his arms around the group. The heavy air hung bleakly over the bed where the CD player lay, patterned duvet only slightly creased, not slept in. The dustbin held several pieces of screwed up paper, with various drafts of letters beginning 'Dear Olivia', and one piece asking 'who am i?', in capital letters. The top draft seemed more final, noting betrayal and hurt, but with undertones of desire, yet this too was deemed unreadable by its author. Or so the intention had been.

It was noticed, slipping gradually away from its inevitable end as it dropped to the ground softly. The woman picked it up and broke into sobs as she regarded the message. She had to sit on the bed to steady herself as she ran a hand over her face and up through her tied hair, letting the letter fall back to rest on the ground. Slowly she calmed, wiping tears away from under her eyes, where dark circles were visible and destroying a naturally pale complexion. She let out a whisper, sighed a man's name and stood back up, straightening her suit as she pulled a cell phone from her pocket. The dial tones ended and a raspy voice answered anxiously with a greeting. She proceeded to let the voice down gently, terror noticeably in her tone.

"He's not here, Walter" the woman admitted. The reply was silence; desperate, distraught. The background noise revealed scrabbling; a shout for attention. A sweeter and less pained female who accompanied Walter had found something important. A sweeping sound through the phone declared that Walter was no longer the one being addressed. "What is it?"

"Olivia, I think you might want to see this..." the sweet girl sounded worried now.

"I'll be right there"

* * *

_Hope you like it, I might do another one or two but that would be it. (:_


	2. Chapter 2

"Was a long visit wrong?  
Say you are the only  
So many foreign worlds  
(So relatively fucked)  
So ready for us"

The stone table was cold granite, polished to perfection. The shot glasses, clear crystal, dregs of an amber liquid in each of the five. The bar sported beverages of all colours, many of which matched the mood lights that were coincidentally reflecting shades of blue. A barman was wiping the surfaces now that most of the punters had gone home for the night; Tuesdays were never busy. The lone, female soldier ordered another whiskey, and he measured and poured it slowly, becoming gradually more aware of her state. She downed it professionally, barely even wincing as the harsh burn flitted through her throat. Drops of saltwater on the bar surface caught the lights, shining blue onto the woman's white, partially-opened blouse. It was a shock for both participants to note them, realise their origin.

From her perspective, it was not her face that was reflecting back at her from the polished table, but a male face; dark hair, dark stubble, vibrant shining blue eyes. There was a sad smile on his lips, but one of forgiveness. Her loss is familiar, but worse, harsher somehow. This gave a constant ache, the last just short bursts of sadness and shame; perhaps because it's happened again, perhaps because it's a different man. She was reminded of when she nearly lost him before, and nearly lost herself. Reminded of when she had been forced to trap him in that hellish office block, infected, and reminded of the plea on his face, the desperation; reminded of the gun's barrel that faced her, reminded of the hand that held it. Then of the current situation, his current location. The bartender watched the woman glance to the side, and pick a piece of paper up from the barstool. It had a picture, eerie and unreal, the kind of thing you wouldn't draw for fear of being assumed insane. A man staring up at a machine, eyes on fire, destroying everything around him, including himself. He watched her eyes widen, staring at the image, unsure whether to approach the wounded woman. She rose herself, giving a nod to the bartender and exiting. The only traces of her custom were the glasses that scattered the bar top.

* * *

_I'm going to leave this here now, I'd do one from Peter's perspective but it'd probably be quite happy and I don't think I want that... ;) _

_Please review :)  
_


End file.
